


it's not the waking, it's the rising

by RaeOfFrickingSunshine



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Lots of Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, Who knows where this is going, exactly how we like it, lots of characters, minimal plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine
Summary: Allie Pressman is not second best.No, really.allie and harry modern high school au
Relationships: Harry Bingham/Allie Pressman
Comments: 40
Kudos: 153





	1. with my mid-youth crisis all said and done

It goes like this:

Allie has always been an extension of Cassandra. She is aware of this. It makes life slightly easier; she would be lying if she claimed her GPA was completely of her own doing. There is already a precedent laid down before her. The gauntlet of high school has already been run, been conquered, by a Pressman. Allie just has to follow in Cassandra’s footsteps.

Her friends are not even distinct from Cassandra. They all sit around one table and have the same inside jokes, the same social calendar. Cassandra wrinkles her nose at rager parties, rolls her eyes at cheerleaders and football players. She has her eyes firmly set upon Ivy League Colleges, and the SAT scores to support it. Cassandra gets to choose the menu for every special family occasion.

“It’s so misogynistic,” it’s Valentines Day and Cassandra’s eyes are on the couples around the cafeteria. In particular, Harry Bingham. Harry has a red rose clamped between his teeth and is doing some impromptu dance with his girlfriend, Kelly. He is spinning her around, tucking her under his arm. Eventually he drops to one knee and offers the rose to her as a sacrifice. Cassandra rolls her eyes at the display. “God, he’s so gauche. He’s already put like, a hundred roses in her locker.”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of sweet,” sometimes Allie cannot resist dissenting, even if she agrees and thought Valentines sucked. That was more to do with the fact that Will’s eyes had not left Kelly during the entire Bingham bonanza. His lips were downturned at the corner, and Allie swears she sees his shoulders tensing.

“Harry Bingham is not sweet,” Cassandra shakes her head with a dismissive laugh, picking at the chicken in her salad (dressing on the side; equal balance of protein and vitamins).

“I’m going to the library,” Will announces, standing abruptly. His lunch is basically untouched. He places one hand on Allie’s shoulder and squeezes it slightly.

“Can I have your muffin?” Allie’s hand is already on the paper wrapped chocolate goodness; her eyes widening theatrically at Will. He chuckles, low and slightly forced.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you later.” He shoulders his backpack and moves quickly from the cafeteria. Allie sees a corner of his yellow socks through a hole in the back of his shoes. It makes her heart seize, for a moment.

“God, you two,” Cassandra has one hand over her own heart and is appraising Allie with heavy eyes. Her bottom lip is pushed out. “You two are so cute. Hey – maybe you should do something for him for Valentines?” and then, “ew, you’re gross, Allie.”

Allie is halfway through annihilating the muffin. Crumbs fall from her mouth as she smirks at Cassandra through the chocolatey mush. “Yeah, who could resist this, huh Cass?” Cassandra’s lips couldn’t quite squash her disgusted smirk, but she made her best attempt.

“I’m serious. Maybe today’s the day.”

“I thought you hated Valentines,” Gordie looks quizzical as he studied Cassandra, gaze unwavering. Allie considered the pair as she sucked obnoxiously on her straw. Cassandra winced at the sound.

“Oh, I do. I’d hate it if anyone did anything for me. But Will and Allie…”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Allie had long ago stopped protesting that she had feelings for Will. It added fuel to the fire, and Cassandra was like a dog with a bone with the idea that Will would wake up one day and confess his undying love. “That ship is never going to sail. Anyway, I’m going to go check the casting list and see what role I’ve magicked up from charming the Drama Club President.” Allie bats her eyelashes at Cassandra, shoving the remainder of the muffin into her mouth. Cassandra opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it, and shares a look with Gordie. “See you, losers.” Allie’s backpack strap catches on the underside of the bench as she drags it along the floor, which ruins her smooth exit. But, whatever. She has no intention to witness Gordie making moon eyes towards her sister for much longer, especially as Cassandra either pretends to be or remains oblivious.

Allie reaches the doorway to the cafeteria the same time as Grizz Visser, football player extraordinaire and prop enthusiast. He places one hand high up on the door and unceremoniously holds it open for her.

“Oh, hey, Allie,” Allie tips her head at him in greeting. “You off to check the casting too?” Allie hums an affirmative. “Well, you sure have the connections. I bet Cassandra’s got you a stellar role.”

Allie feels half wounded, because damnit, she’d practiced the audition piece tens of times, until Will was lying back on her bed in protest and demanding that they do something different. Until she was monologuing in the shower, whilst brushing her teeth, even once during her dream.

“I tried really hard at the audition,” she admits in a low voice, and there must be something in her tone, because Grizz looks down (damnit, why was everyone so much taller than her).

“Oh yeah, I know. I saw it. You were really good.” He half smiles, and it feels a little like pity. Allie nods briefly.

The cast listing is outside the drama studio. There is already a small crowd, but it parts slightly at Grizz’s arrival. He clasps hands with a member of the football team who’s already there and claps them on the back. Allie peers over the shoulder of someone in front, scanning the list.

Her eyes snag upon Pressman; Cassandra is second on the list, as leading lady. Harry Bingham is leading man. Her eyes move slowly down the remainder of the list – and then there is no more. No more Pressman’s. There is, however, a sheet next to it. And there is the second Pressman; a mockery, second down on the crew members. Assistant stage manager.

“Hey, Pressman, what did you get?” Grizz jostles at her shoulder, not in an unfriendly manner. Allie’s fingers curl further around her backpack. Grizz runs a finger down the casting list, and then notices the crew members. “Oh – cool – stage manager. I mean, that’s good.” He’s billed as a minor role, and props assistant. But that is what he auditioned for. Allie hadn’t been stupid enough to go for the leading lady. She had gone for the second most prominent role – and hadn’t even been listed for a one-liner. Grizz tucks his hair behind his ear and licks his lower lip, and Allie is struck suddenly that he was embarrassed. He was embarrassed for Allie Pressman, who doesn’t even get cast by her own sister in a school play.

Allie wants to scream. She can feel her fingernails digging half-moons into her palm. Her stomach has clenched, and her jaw, and her shoulders, and she feels like she’s going to snap when she feels a hand on her shoulder and turns –

“Al,” Cassandra’s lips are parted and Gordie hovers at her shoulder, looking slightly grim.

“Congratulations,” the pitch of her voice is all wrong, she knows it is. Allie does not want a scene – she is aware of Grizz, looking at her with concern or pity, and Gordie – and Cass, her sister, her family.

“Al,” Cassandra tries again. But there are already tears forming in Allie’s eyes and she thinks, briefly, _fuck you_ as she turns and marches away.

Distantly she hears the arrival of more people at the board, and Harry fucking Bingham, “guess it’s me and you again, hey Pressman.”

“Purely professional,” Cassandra snipes back, then “come on, Gordie,” before her footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Allie makes it into the nearest empty room before the tears spill over, tracking down her cheeks. She wipes them away angrily. Her emotions unfurl, hot and angry and heady, spilling into her limbs until she wants to scream or punch something or something anything –

Instead she clenches her fists and walks in tight, angry lines up the drama store cupboard. She is annoyed that she is so effected. She is annoyed that she put so much effort into her audition – that she was rejected by her own sister. That once more her sister is center stage, and she has to work behind the scenes. There could not be a more fitting metaphor for her and Cassandra than the one she is due to play out.

The bell is a sharp shock, interrupting her angry pacing. Allie takes a deep breath, annoyed with herself that it shudders. Then she shoulders her backpack and sets off for AP English.

*

Allie likes English. She is good at it. She likes the rhythm of poetry, the whims of prose.

She is too focused upon the gossiping girls in front of her to focus on what’s going on.

It’s a small town, a small school. People take notice of things such as leads in the school play.

“I heard Cassandra did all the casting herself – and she’s put Harry as the lead again.” Here there is a pause as both of their heads, one brunette, one blonde, swivel towards Harry Bingham. “I wonder if she has a thing for him.”

The blonde sighs. “I don’t blame her – look at him. If I could have a shot, make believe or not, I would.”

The brunette mutters something which sounds suspiciously like ew, straights. “Doesn’t she like, absolutely hate him?”

The blonde shrugs one shoulder. “Hate is extremely close to love.”

And, well, shit. Allie’s never really considered it. Cassandra and Harry’s rivalry has always seemed just that; that Harry was a pretentious rich boy, and Cassandra was attempting to be the exact opposite. She had so many morals that sometimes Allie loses track.

*

She drags herself through the rest of the day, and is swapping her books at her locker before last period.

“Hey,” Allie shuts her locker to see Will, whose brow is furrowed and whose arms are crossed across his chest. “Are you okay?”

“Uh,” it’s more an exhalation than an answer, and Allie feels small, at once, very small and young. “Yeah, of course. Yeah.”

Will pushes off the locker to walk with her, long legs slowing to match her pace. “Yeah? You sure?”

Allie pauses. “Well – it’s just – it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? She’s my sister and-” it’s hard to rationalise. Especially to Will, whose tongue becomes looser when he’s inebriated and has cried that he has never felt wanted or loved by a parental figure since he was 7 – his breath hot on her face as they cuddled under Allie’s duvet. So she bites back the words and shrugs one shoulder and says, “it’s whatever, really.”

Will, who knows her, places a hand on her elbow. Will, who has never had much love, but has so much to give. “Let’s go for dessert after school?”

Allie pretends, for a moment, that he is her boyfriend. She smiles gratefully. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Will.”

He walks away and she watches him go, catching Kelly Aldrich doing the same.

*

**Going for dessert with Will**

**Okay! Love you x**

Allie does not respond, and feels petty about it. It annoys her.

*

Allie had forgotten about Valentines Day. _Hanky Panky’s_ was almost full. Allie and Will had to follow the nimble footed waitress through the myriad of chairs and tables and feet; Allie clutching Will’s hand, Will looking over his shoulder with a spark in his eye.

Eventually they are seated on a rickety table, knees jammed together, leaning towards each other in order to hear better.

“I just feel like I’m obviously not good enough at acting.” Allie frowns into her Nutella milkshake and refuses to meet Will’s gaze, which is steady on her.

“That’s bullshit – you practiced it a million times. I should know,” he catches her gaze for half a second. “Maybe she doesn’t want to play favorites or something.”

Allie shrugs a shoulder and sucks at the milkshake. Will follows suit.

“I can’t believe you went for banana smoothie,” Allie shakes her head at Will, “who wants liquid fruit at a pancake house?”

Will flicks his straw at her. “Shut up, sugarholic. Not all of us are blessed with unrottable teeth.” Will’s two fillings are a sore point, especially when Allie’s diet mainly consists of sugar.

“Can’t help what I’ve been blessed with,” Allie strikes a pose, hand under chin. Will smiles amenably.

“Seriously, you should just talk to her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” it seems so irrelevant now. The fire in her stomach has dimmed to a faint ember. It is easier to let these things go, to stop from rotting inside out. But it is easier said than done.

Allie orders a huge stack of chocolate fudge pancake; Will orders a lemon and sugar French crepe.

“Ooo, how continental,” Allie swipes a piece of his crepe anyway, allowing the sugar to dissolve on her tongue. She sticks it out at his protests, moving her plate from his reach as he attempts a retaliation attack.

“Not fair,” he whines, as his fork stabs into the table once more. They are surrounded by couples, there’s condensation in the window, and Allie feels faintly contented. Even waits for Will to go to the bathroom before quickly settling their tab; raises an eyebrow in challenge so any protests die in his throat. Will’s financial status is not something which is spoken of.

Allie winds her scarf around her neck, squinting into the February sky. Will helps her when the scarf gets caught under her hair, in her hood. She grins at him from behind the woolen mask. It’s a quiet moment, almost serene, until hissed voices break the reverie.

Harry Bingham and Kelly Aldrich, heads bent towards each other, engaged in a heated debate. Allie can’t hear what’s being said, ascertains there is no danger to either, so turns back to Will. Who is frowning at the pair with vigor.

“Will,” he refocuses on Allie. She gives up. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you, for this.”

He smiles quickly. “It’s no problem, Al. What are friends for.” It does not hurt her heart, does not hurt her heart. She smiles back instead. “Text me when you’re home.”

She nods, grabs his hand and squeezes once, quickly, before she leaves him there, still frowning at where Kelly is retreating down the street.

Harry remains where the pair had been standing, pulls his hands through his hair, then sighs. He catches Allie’s eyes as she walks past and smirks, briefly.

“Pressman.”

“Bingham.”

Allie wonders how it feels to have two boys watching as you walk away.

*

This is how it goes:

Allie notices that Cassandra has been breathing heavier than normal. Can hear her breathing during quiet components of _Ten Things I Hate About You_. When Cassandra is running lines in her room, her eyes sparking, paper scrunched in her palm as she infuses the lines with passion and flair. The unintended breaks in those lines, the lungsful of air.

Cassandra stops taking long walks. She has always avoided strenuous exercise anyway – but she has always diligently walked, miles upon miles. Sometimes she persuades Allie to join her but Allie gets bored with the steady, consistent pace Cass sets – wants to run or stop and look at flowers or the view - but Cass just keeps walking and walking, at precisely 3.5 miles an hour, either ignoring Allie as she looks at the daisies or the bluebells or the field of sunflowers, or urging her to keep up.

It’s when Cassandra curls up in Allie’s bed, as she often does. And her breathing hitches in her sleep – Allie counts _onetwothree_ before it gusts out, catches, and re-regulates.

Allie wonders if it has always been like this, and she has just been short sighted. She has always been aware, some part of her, that Cassandra may not be forever. It is clear that her parents believe this too – in the way they handle her accomplishments, how they lavish praise upon their firstborn. Allie is not about to complain that she is unloved – quite the opposite. But sometimes she feels that her parents have so much love for Cassandra, as if it can keep her alive, that she cannot expect the same.

Allie wonders if Cassandra ever considers her own mortality. Or whether she has, then placed it neatly within a box. Cassandra is so measured, so considered, so logical.

Which is what makes arguing with her infuriating.

“I feel embarrassed, Cass. My own sister won’t even cast me in the school play.”

Cassandra is sitting on the end of her bed, and Allie is already under the covers. It feels strangely formal.

“Al, Al, it’s not like that,” Cassandra is wringing her hands, fingertip to fingertip. “I can’t show favorites. I can’t. I have to prove myself-”

“Was I that bad?” Allie means for it to be biting and cutting, but it comes out petulant. Cassandra jerks slightly.

“No – Al – no. You were really good. I just-” her hand is on her heart and she breaths in quickly, twice. “You’re so good, Al. I’m going to put you forward for President of the club next year. But it’s – it’s my last play. You have next year. I didn’t want it to become the Pressman show.”

Allie wants to say _it’s just a school play_. She wants to say _you’ve been cast as the lead three years in a row._ She wants to say _there is no Pressman show. There is only the Cassandra Pressman show._

Silence hangs in the room.

“You’ve never shown an interest in acting before,” Cassie is hesitant, each syllable weighed out. “We don’t have to do everything together.”

The two sisters used to go to horse-riding lessons until Cassandra was 12 and Allie was 11. Allie adored going to the barn. Adored the horse’s sweet-smelling breath, their trusting eyes. She was adventurous, chasing adrenaline highs. She jumped any fence her coach told her to. Cassandra was always more measured, more thorough. The coach was always telling her to relax, to be more in tune with the horse. Then one day she attempted a fence Allie had been flying over, Cassandra’s face screwed up in determination. Cassandra fell, and although unharmed, insisted they swap to badminton.

Allie does not know who she would be without Cassandra.

“It doesn’t matter,” Allie says instead, and wishes it didn’t. Cassandra looks hollowed out like a Halloween pumpkin. The lie lingers between them, almost tangible. Cass closes her eyes briefly.

“I’m sorry, Al. I should have told you or consulted you.”

Allie trains her eyes on her covers and shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” it is not okay. But Cassandra pulls herself to her feet anyway. “Well, goodnight.”

“ ‘night, Cassie.”

The door clicks shut with finality.


	2. i need to be youthfully felt

*

The weekend passes slowly. Cassandra invites her to the cinema with her and Gordie. She declines. She texts Will instead, asking him to hang out.

**Sorry, busy. Raincheck?**

**Who could you possibly be busy with??**

**helLO**

**ok mr mystery**

**see you Monday**

**< 3**

For a second she lets herself believe that he means it.

Instead she cranks up her music, dances around her room, binge watches Brooklyn Nine-Nine and paints her toenails. It is not as good as it sounds. It is lonely and vast, and Sunday seems unconquerable when she opens her eyes.

She pretends to be asleep when Cassandra knocks on her door.

She texts, then double texts, then triple texts Will. He doesn’t even reply when she spams him with memes.

*

“So are you two good now?” Gordie always brings two thermoses of coffee to school. One is black and scorching, which he sips. The other is cooler, frothed with oat milk. Cassandra flirted with veganism a year or so ago (until her iron levels dropped too low and their parents freaked out) and had decided she preferred oat milk. When Cassandra isn’t around, Allie gets the coffee.

She prefers tea, but she’s grateful anyway.

“Yeah, we talked about it,” Gordie relaxes a little, half smiles at her. Allie sips the coffee. “God, this is good.”

“She was really anxious,” Gordie tilts his head as he considers her and briefly, Allie feels like a child. “Cass doesn’t want to upset you, Al-“

“I know,” her smile is tight, thin lipped. “We’re good.”

They’re standing in their usual morning haunt outside school, around the corner from the parking lot, February sun soft on the horizon. Steam curls from Allie’s unlidded thermos. It is cool and crisp, but Allie saw three bluebells in a cluster on the way over, so she has the faint curling of Spring in her bones. She can see the cars pulling into the lot. She can see Harry Bingham getting out of his car, alone.

Her hair is ruffled from behind, and then an arm slips around her shoulders. She smiles up at Will, leaning into him. He steals her thermos, ignoring her protests, and gulps coffee down like juice.

“God, you’re an ass,” there is an inch or so left when she retrieves the thermos (all he has to do is hold the thermos high and she is frowning at him, hands on hips, because Goddamnit it she’s not about to _jump_ ). “Why are you so freakishly tall? Beanpole,” his chuckle warms her soul. “You ever thought about putting that height to good use – maybe basketball, rather than taunting your poor, defenceless best friend?”

“I’m not actually much taller than the US male average,” she finishes the remnants of the coffee and narrows her eyes at him. “Maybe you’re just freakishly short.”

Allie scoffs, clicking the lid back onto the thermos. “I am not _short_.”

Will steps closer, shoulders pulled back. He jostles into her personal space, arm to her shoulder. “Sure you’re not.”

Cassandra is late to the group, half out of breath. “Hey, guys,” her eyes linger on Gordie’s coffee thermos and Allie sees his fingers tightening around it, sees the gaze Gordie and Cassandra send Allie in unison.

She refuses to feel guilty. It’s not like she kidnapped the coffee.

“Morning,” Gordie’s greeting is half drowned by the bell. The group assembles in formation, Allie and Will and Cassie and Gordie. Half of Allie hopes they look like couples.

“Where were you all weekend, anyway?” Allie prods Will in the side, who twists away.

“Uh, with a friend,” his gaze doesn’t quite meet hers, slips past.

Allie gasps. “A _friend_?!”

His jaw clenches, subtly, so surreptitious that Allie almost misses it. “I do have other friends, you know.” His tone is tinged with ice, and Allie half steps, widening the gap between them. “I am allowed other friends.”

Allie’s laugh is forced, bright. “I know – of course – I texted you…”

How can she explain that she feels as though she is a vacuum of everything good, and that he stops it from consuming her?

“We don’t have to do everything together.” Will says it with finality, with weight. Allie wants to recoil and hide, or get away from him, but they have registration and they are turning towards their home rooms, him in front and her behind.

She wants to say _I never said we had to be_ and _it takes three seconds to text someone back_ and _when did I stop being your best friend but you remained mine._

His shoes squeak on the linoleum as he stops, outside his home room. He curls a hand under her chin, fingertips resting behind her ear. If she turned her head she could press a kiss to his wrist, feel his pulse beneath her lips. As it is, Will’s eyes just look sad, and she rests one hand on his elbow. It is an embrace so intimate, so at odds with their exchange.

“I just missed you,” she sounds once more like a petulant child, but Will pushes his lips into a half smile.

“I can understand, I am amazing.” She scoffs and pushes his elbow away, but it does not feel normal, does not feel the same. Allie doesn’t mind pretending. “Uh – don’t wait for me at lunch?”

It seems like it will not suit her to ask why. Instead she smiles at him. “Okay, mystery boy.” She spins away instead, points one finger back at him. “But I will find out what you’re hiding!”

Will mock salutes her before pushing into his home room.

For the first time ever, Allie feels a lot like skipping school.

*

Allie sits with Becca and Sam during registration. Their friendship is easy and sweet, but filled with signs they have adapted for inside jokes. They pull smiles from each other, have a steady rhythm to their interactions which can make Allie feel out of kilter. Sometimes, selfishly, she thinks _he’s my cousin_ but she dismisses it as soon as she does, because who is she to have any claim on anyone.

Sam taps her on her forearm to get her attention. _“Sorry about the play,”_ he signs and God – does everyone know? Is everyone talking about her?

“Yeah, that was pretty shitty of Cassandra,” Becca signs and speaks along, and Sam nods an affirmative. Allie frowns at them both.

“It makes sense,” she is defensive, the words hot in her throat and tripping over each other. She forgets to sign for a second, quickly catches up after shooting Sam an apologetic glance. His eyes are trained on her anyway, his smile – what? Pitying?

Becca has never been known for letting things go. She shares a look with Sam. “I heard your audition was really good.”

Really? A school play? Her throat burns and she really doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Allie does not want pity, or apologies. “There’s always next year. It’s just a school play.”

Becca is ready to retort, her eyes flashing once to Sam as she inhales, but then Sam shakes his head and she deflates, her eyes moving past Allie.

_“You’ll be a shoo-in next year,”_ Sam pauses in his signing, lays a hand on Allie’s forearm and smiles. _“The Pressman reign shall continue.”_ Beside him, Becca snorts.

“Maybe you intimidated her,” Becca suggests, with a small conciliatory grin, and Allie pulls her lips into a smile.

“Yeah, right.”

*

It goes like this:

Will spends two out of four lunches sat at their table. It should not bother Allie as much as it does. Gordie starts hanging onto Cassandra’s coffee in the morning, even when she doesn’t turn up. Cassandra and Allie remain on opposite schedules, arriving at school at different times.

Rehearsals for the school play begin on the Thursday, which finds Allie sitting in the auditorium, facing the stage as students shuffle vaguely around. Cassandra gets progressively redder in the face; especially when Harry Bingham makes some quips and the group around him laughs. Cassandra stomps across the stage, catching Allie’s gaze and rolling her eyes.

Will is a heavy weight as he drops into the seat next to her. He rests his chin on his hands, and his hands on the seat in front. Allie feels like holding her breath in case he leaves her.

“Hey,” he greets softly, eyes trained on the stage.

“I’m not sure there’s much requirement for lighting today,” Allie watches as Cassandra shakes her script at Harry, the papers rattling. Harry stares back, one eyebrow arched.

Will hums. “Just came to see how things are getting on.” There is a silence which Allie does not fill. “Harry and Cass – they’re always the leads.”

Allie shrugs a shoulder because sometimes, that’s just how things are. “She did the casting, so she’s only got herself to blame this time.” Cassandra is shaking her head, turning away from Harry to speak to the other cast members. Harry’s hand is in his hair, pulling the strands, and he’s smirking.

The rehearsal doesn’t last long. Just for Cassandra to split the cast into sections following the script, prescribe days and dates for rehearsals. She throws “hey, Al, write this down,” over her shoulder, and Allie does so, obediently, scrawling the proposals over paper ripped from her exercise book.

“Okay, so,” Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose. She squats briefly, taking the paper from where Allie offers it. “This is how it’s going to be split.”

“Isn’t this a role for the stage manager?” Harry’s voice cuts across everyone else’s; silencing any buzz of muttered conversation.

“Well, Helena’s not here today, so,” Cassandra folds the paper, down the middle, nails driving in the sharp edge.

“Isn’t that why you have an assistant stage manager? To assist the stage manager?”

Allie feels the weight of the room’s gaze on her, from where she stands in the gap between the stage and the seats. Cassandra turns, slowly, and frowns at her. The silence is suffocating.

“Mini Pressman?” Harry prompts, and a smirk is wrestling across his lips. Allie flushes, hot, her jaw clenching. By God, she can see why Cassandra hates him.

“Don’t be an asshole, Bingham,” Cassandra snaps, and his gaze slides lazily back to her. He spreads his hands in front of himself, eyes widening in innocence.

“I was only asking.” It has had the desired effect; Allie knows it has. Cassandra knows it has. Harry knows it has. Cassandra’s fists clench once, twice, then relax. Lexie mutters to Bean next to her, her eyes narrowing as she considers Cassandra. It is subtle, but then Allie always has the feeling that Harry is a lot more intuitive than credited for.

Cass clears her throat, regaining her composure. “As I was saying, the groups are like this.”

*

Allie leans against the wall, her head pressed against the cool brick. Her hand is looped lightly around the strap of her backpack. Then, the doors bounce open and out comes Cassandra Pressman, Gordie trailing at her shoulder.

“Allie! There you are,” Cassandra waits for half a second as Allie pulls herself from the wall, drags her backpack onto her shoulder. “God, can you believe Harry,” Cassandra shakes her head as she marches forward, “he always tries to undermine me. It’s so immature.”

Allie thought he may have had a point, doesn’t want to point this out, risk facing Cass’s wrath.

“Pressman! Hey, Pressman.”

Cassandra doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even falter. Just keeps striding across the parking lot to the bike rack. But Allie, she half turns, squints at Harry as he approaches.

“Cassandra!”

Finally, Cassandra spins around. Crosses her arms across her chest and juts her chin. Gordie is stranded, stuck between them in no mans land. “What?” Allie didn’t know Cassandra could sound so churlish, almost wounded.

“There’s a party at mine tomorrow. Everyone else,” here he gestures towards everyone else slowly filtering from the school building. “Is invited. Fancy gracing us with your presence?”

“Hm,” Cassandra places a hand on her chin, mock thoughtful. “Let me think. Hm. No.”

Harry’s laugh is almost startling, and Allie frowns at them both. Gordie’s fingers are tight on his backpack strap.

“Mini Pressman?” Harry’s gaze cuts to her, and this time Cassandra laughs.

“It’s a no, Bingham. We don’t do that kind of thing. We’d rather keep possession of all our brain cells, thanks.”

Harry doesn’t stop looking at Allie. She wishes he would.

“What don’t you understand about no?” Cassie’s voice is cutting, final.

“Ever speak for yourself, Pressman? Or does Cassie dear always do your talking for you?”

Words seem to be stuck in her throat, so Allie shrugs. She thinks for a moment she sees something akin to disappointment in his eyes, but there’s an easy smirk on his face.

“Go away, Harry,” Cassandra closes the gap between her and Allie, grabs Allie’s hand. Allie notes that Cass’s palm is slick. “Find someone else to annoy.”

“See you tomorrow, Mini Pressman,” Harry winks at Allie, then turns on his heel and leaves, his hands shoved into his pockets, whistling nonchalantly. Cassie makes a noise, low in her throat.

*

“You’re not going, are you?” Cassandra’s voice is sharp from the doorway. She is engulfed in an oversized sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The waves she’d meticulously formed in her hair for school were still in place.

“Uh,” Allie’s hand jerks at the interruption, and the mascara wand wavers a little too close to her eyeball for comfort. “I thought I would, actually.” Cassandra raises her eyebrows. “Will’s going.”

“But –“ Gordie is in Cassandra’s room, and Allie wonders if he was willing to accept what Cassandra was offering despite wanting more. “We don’t go to parties. They’re illegal, Allie.”

Allie moves onto lipgloss, slicking it across her lips. She appraises herself in the mirror. “I’ll be sensible,” catching Cassandra’s gaze, she smiles at her. “Like, two beers, max.”

Cassandra sags against the doorframe. It feels a little like a victory. “Okay, well. Stay away from Harry Bingham. I’ll tell mom and dad you’re at Will’s. Want me to pick you up later?”

There is still tension in the lines of her shoulders, in her brow. But Allie lets her pretend. “I should be fine. I think Will’s driving. I’ll let you know, though.”

Allie stands up, pulling her fingers through her hair. Cassandra’s eyes on her are soft. “You look really nice, Allie. Be careful.”

Allie checks her phone.

**Here**

**Where are you????**

**ALLIE**

**I WILL leave you**

Smiling, she types a response back to Will.

**Okay mr impatient**

**Just getting my shoes**

“I will, Cass,” Allie shoves her phone into her purse, pulls on a pair of low heeled boots and a jacket. Smiles briefly at her sister as she passes her. Cass's fingertips graze her elbow, briefly. 

Allie feels Cassandra’s eyes on her back, all the way down the stairs, through the door. Once the door is shut, a tight weight on her chest eases slightly.

“Hey,” Will looks up from his phone as she slides into the seat next to him. The car is a beaten up truck; his foster father will have had a few too many beers by now to realise it was missing. Will drives carefully, precisely, backing steadily off Allie’s drive.

Allie appraises Will; the checked shirt, clean jeans. Even his boots look like they’ve been polished. “Oh, you look great. Who you trying to impress?”

She wants him to say _you_ as he slides her a grin, but instead he pulls a can from the cupholder near his knee and passes it to her. Allie can’t help but notice his cheeks are tinged slightly pink. “To celebrate you actually leaving the house,” he explains, and Allie rolls her eyes. But she pops the tag and takes several large gulps, wiping her chin and wincing at the bitter taste.

Harry’s house is only two blocks away, so the drive is short. Will cruises slowly down darkened streets, both hands gripping the wheel. Allie looks out of the window and forces herself to relax, her knee tapping against the dashboard.

“Hey, relax,” Will flicks her knee. “It’s gonna be fun. Just a classic high school party.” Then, he holds her gaze as he pulls up near the Bingham’s. Even from here Allie can hear a very dull throb of base. “I’ll be there.”

“I know,” Allie needs to do something with her hands, so picks up her purse and double checks she has everything. Lip balm, phone, emergency cash. She pulls her phone out. “Selfie?”

Will crushes his cheek to hers and sticks his tongue out, she laughs and presses the shutter. Checks them briefly. They look good. Happy. Like a couple. The homescreen goes dark as she presses it to lock.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so far dear readers (and especially dear commenters!) it is extremely appreciated (:


	3. oh momma, don't fuss over me

The singular beer Allie’s drunk provides a pleasant buzz. She places her hand in the crook of Will’s elbow, smiles up at him, and they enter together.

She feels on show, out of place as they step through the threshold. But the reality is no one even stops to look at them. Will drops her hand and smiles, replacing it with a hand on her lower back.

“Let’s get a drink,” his voice is so close to her ear, her neck, that she supresses a shiver. Just smiles and nods, and lets herself be guided to the keg. Her eyes dart around on the journey over, taking in the game of beer pong on the dining room table, the couples entangled in each other. She knows Will has attended a few of these, but still appreciates the ease with which he navigates the keg and passes her a red solo cup of beer. Allie smiles over the rim at him.

“The trick is to drink the first one quickly,” Will stands close as he advises her, and lifts his cup to his lips. Allie, not wanting to be outdone, does the same. “Then,” he turns and fills his cup once more. “You have enough to sustain the awkward first entrance.” Allie passes him her half empty cup, and he obliges.

“Quite the party expert, I see,” she’s only one and a half beer’s in and her tongue already feels thicker in her mouth, slower. But Will is still standing close, and she can feel his body heat, and if she closes her eyes and leans towards him he wraps an arm around her and just allows her to be. “I have some high school party bingo to complete, by the way,” she informs him with grandeur.

“Oh yeah?” if she squints, he looks vaguely fond. Or maybe appeasing.

She ploughs on anyway. “Yeah. So I’m gonna have to do some sort of drinking game – beer pong or whatever. Have a dance, even though I can’t. I’m probably gonna have to try a keg stand. Oh, and kiss someone.” She adds the last whilst looking at Will in her peripheral vision, trying to gauge his reaction. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Quite a list, Allie. Maybe aim for one or two.” He slides her a sideways, flat look. Allie shrugs, straightening up from him and gulping at the solo cup.

“The point of bingo is to get a full house, William. Go big or go home.”

He’s grinning at her, and she’s beaming back, but then his gaze has slipped over her shoulder, and his smile has faded to a look of – well, reverie. It makes her heart lurch in her chest. She doesn’t look over her shoulder to see who it’s aimed at.

There’s an awkward 20 minutes, where Will and Allie stand too close to each other (to hear over the music, but Allie can pretend otherwise) and sip lukewarm beer. Allie finds the more she drinks, the easier it goes down. It doesn’t make it taste any better, though, and she decides she likes how it makes her feel but distinctly does not like the taste.

Allie’s not completely naïve; she’s been drunk before. But it’s mostly been on a few glasses of wine at a dinner party hosted by her parents, from a bottle secreted away by Cassie. She’s never had unlimited access to free flowing alcohol and a sense of impending anxiety.

As it happens, apparently the two lead to excessive consumption.

She’s standing at the end of the dining room table, ping pong ball in hand, tongue between her teeth. If she closes one eye, the cups stop moving. She takes aim. The ball lands with a satisfying clunk in the last remaining cup, and Will high fives her.

“Suck it, Luke!” Allie does finger guns across the table, grins at Will. Helena is laying a hand on Luke’s arm and they’re both laughing.

“Damn, didn’t know you had it in you, Allie,” Luke concedes, downing the last beer filled cup.

“Let’s have a go,” Harry is leading Kelly, his girlfriend, by her hand. Will suddenly goes very still next to her.

“They’re unstoppable,” Helena complains. “The dream team!” Allie is charmed, tries to share a smile with Will. But his gaze isn’t on her.

“I’ll go get a refill,” Will mumbles, quietly, then raises his voice and tips his solo cup, “I’m gonna go get a refill.”

Kelly shakes free of Harry’s grip, nods, “me too.”

Both Harry and Allie watch them walk off. Will’s head bends towards Kelly, and her lips are pressed into a thin line.

“Where’s Cassandra?” Harry switches his gaze to Allie.

Allie tosses a ping pong ball into the air, and shrugs. Then scowls when she misses catching the ball, fingertips grazing the white plastic. Instead, it bounces to the floor and rolls slowly towards Harry. Allie glares at it. Traitor.

“Didn’t realise you were allowed out without an entourage.”

Allie looks at him. His eyes are dark pits, his hair in disarray. A part of her wonders if it’s bedhead; if Kelly had been running her fingers through it just moments before.

“At least Cassandra has the decency to speak,” his voice is low, mocking.

Her smirk is sharp, but fades quickly as she hears Will’s laugh. Harry and Allie turn in unison towards the sound. Will is grinning at Kelly, and Kelly is smiling up at him. They each carry two solo cups, and Will spills a drop on Kelly as he’s jostled from the side. Kelly laughs at him.

They look as though they are unaware of anyone else in the room.

Allie’s heart beats very quickly, and something coils in her stomach. If she hadn’t been watching she wouldn’t have noticed, but something akin to vulnerability flashes across Harry’s face. But then he’s smiling, taking the cups from Kelly, placing them on the table. Whisper-shouting “you look beautiful, babe,” and tilting her chin, pulling her into a kiss.

Allie looks at her feet, embarrassed, and Will determinedly starts filling the cups and placing them in formation. In her peripheral vision Allie sees Kelly pulling away, a flush on the blonde’s cheeks. Kelly’s biting her lip, her gaze trained into the distance.

“Okay,” Harry throws an arm around Kelly’s shoulders, “let’s do this.”

Will is suddenly invested, lining up shots with exaggerated accuracy. His hand no longer ghosts the small of Allie’s back when she half stumbles, he doesn’t slide her sideways smiles, doesn’t encourage as she lines up for another shot.

His newfound investment doesn’t translate into sudden newfound talent, and Will’s jaw clenches as Harry lands another ball.

“Drink up, LeClair,” Harry’s voice is low and quiet.

Shots which Allie had been landing all night bounce off the table, making Harry snort derisively. One bounces off the table and nails Harry square in the forehead.

“Oops,” Allie keeps her voice sugar sweet. “My bad.” She would be lying if she said she hadn’t been aiming for his smug, insufferable face.

Kelly and Harry end up winning. Harry picks her up and swings her around in celebration. Keeping one arm around Kelly, he offers his hand to Will to shake. Will looks at the proffered hand, then looks away, dismissing it.

“LeClair,” Harry’s voice is light but Allie can sense an undercurrent of steel. “Must I remind you that you are in my house?” There is a beat of heavy, loaded silence. “Kind of rude to ignore the man of the house now, isn’t it?”

They look like they’re trying to crush each other’s hands when they eventually shake; bones grinding against each other. Kelly catches Allie’s eye and rolls her eyes, wriggling out from Harry’s embrace.

“Hey, you’re pretty good, Allie. How about we play girls?” there’s no time to answer, because Kelly’s already yelling, “GWEN! HELENA!”

Gwen joins Kelly, wraps her arms around her waist and presses her face into the crook of Kelly’s neck. Kelly rests her head on Gwen’s shoulder, and they laugh, moving together to the bass, before breaking away.

Allie is struck with the feeling that she is an outsider, that there are so many experiences she has not had but seem so normal. Like a best friend who is not related to her.

Helena shares a look with Allie. “I’m not drinking, so you’ll have to double up,” Helena advises her, as she tosses the ball high into the air. Allie notes that she catches it. “Also, I’m competitive.”

An audience builds as the game progresses – it’s strangely competitive, Helena roaring at Allie to “land it, land it girl!” as she takes aim and – thank God – lands it. All respective boyfriends are there, Luke clapping Helena, Clark whooping and smacking Gwen’s ass when she lands a shot. Allie doesn’t miss the narrowed eyed look Gwen shoots him.

“Vindication!” Helena slams her hands on the table as Allie lands the last shot, pulling Allie into a slightly clammy hug. “Yes!”

Helena does a victory dance, then slams into Luke’s chest. He’s laughing, pressing a kiss to her hairline and wrapping his arms around his girlfriend.

“Well played, Pressman,” he says over Helena’s head, and Allie grins and salutes.

“Fuck, I love this song,” Gwen has gathered all of her hair into a lopsided pony tail, grabs Kelly by the hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Allie is an outsider – she has never even really spoken to these girls outside of class – so she steps back. But then Kelly is grabbing her hand and she doesn’t even know how to formulate a protest, finds herself being dragged to the sitting room where the couches have been shoved to one side for a make shift dancefloor.

Dancing has never been her strong suit – she doesn’t have anyone she can hold onto like Gwen and Kelly, who hold hands and jump and scream the song lyrics. Instead, Allie has to make do with vague bopping and jumping, spinning around. The room slides, spins around her.

Vaguely she sees a girl sitting on Harry Bingham’s lap, who is not Kelly, because Kelly is marching towards them, all contained fury.

Finally, a slow song comes on; all couples have gravitated towards each other. Allie looks around for Will, almost frantic. He had been talking with Becca, but now he is nowhere in sight.

“Will!” it doesn’t take long to find him. He’s in the hallway, one hand on Kelly’s shoulder as the pair speak. Allie screeches to a halt, stumbles slightly on her own feet.

Will turns at his name, and Kelly swipes at her eyes. Kelly’s arms are wrapped around herself.

“Woah,” Allie mumbles, giggling slightly. She puts a hand on the wall to stop herself from overbalancing. “Are you crying?” she asks Kelly, who frowns at her. Then she remembers why she’s there. “Oh – Will – there’s a slow song. Wanna come fast dance?”

His gaze is tinged with annoyance. “Give us a minute, Allie.”

‘Us’ should not jolt like it does. Us used to be Allie and Will. Practicing dance routines for this exact moment, for when couples are swaying and the loneliness feels crushing and overwhelming.

Allie spins away, but she doesn’t go back to dancing. She feels empty, all of a sudden, and cold. And hungry.

She’s eaten most of a family share bag of Cheetos when Will finds her.

“There you are,” his gaze is slightly amused as he takes her in, sitting cross legged on the kitchen counter, sucking Cheetos dust off her fingers. He has her jacket in one hand.

“Here I am,” she raises her solo cup in greeting. A little spills down her chin when she glugs it, but, whatever.

“I reckon you’ve had enough,” Will covers the distance between them in long strides, begins prying her fingers from the solo cup. She relinquishes her hold, frowning at him.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she grumbles petulantly. “Everyone’s always telling me what to do.”

Will smiles gently at her, shifts to move away. But she’s curling her fingers into the front of his shirt, hooking a fingertip around a button.

“I really like you, Will,” she breaths, and he is very close to her.

“I really like you too, Allie.”

It is easy – easy to pull him down, press her lips to his. His lips are soft and she is struck by how it feels so familiar, how she is so used to how he smells, the shape of his chin and face in her hands.

He moves away suddenly, but then puts one hand up to her shoulder as she pitches forwards on the counter.

“Allie, you’re really drunk.” His eyes are dark and wide and sad. Allie stares at him for a while, trying to scrutinise his expression. Decides she can’t.

Instead, “you taste like Cheetos.”

“Allie…” he tries again, and it is so low and sad. Allie can feel her heart clenching and her stomach falling to her feet. She shrugs his hand off, misses the contact instantly.

“Whatever, Will,” she picks up the bag of Cheetos again, to do something with her hands. Will rubs a tired hand over his face and heaves a sigh. Hot, angry tears suddenly prick at Allie’s eyes. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. Determinedly, she shoves a handful of Cheetos into her mouth.

“Don’t mind me,” Harry Bingham is all smirks, hands held in front of his body in mock appeasement. Will is still standing in front of Allie, close, and Allie wants to laugh and cry at the mis-reading of the situation.

“We’re just leaving,” Will attempts to take Allie’s hand to help her from the counter, but she slaps at him, pushing down and landing heavily on her feet. She doesn’t look at Will, who mutters “Al,” quietly.

“I’m taking these,” Allie announces, rattling the bag of Cheetos at Harry. He inclines his chin and smirks at her.

“Knock yourself out, Mini Pressman.”

Then Will is taking her elbow – (not her hand) (and not by the hand flipping Harry Bingham off) – and steering her out of the kitchen, down the hallway and out of the house.

He releases her outside the front door, and she follows him, their shoes crunching on the gravel.

It takes three attempts for her to open the door, and in the end she hits the side of the truck with a flat palm and Will leans over, shoving the door open from the inside. It almost collides with her head but she inhales quickly instead, steadying herself, before pulling herself into the cab.

Her hands stutter on the seatbelt, fumble with the catch. Then she’s just sitting in a cab of a truck next to a boy she kissed who didn’t want her to.

The car ride is silent, the air feels heavy, and Allie just wants to cry. Finally, Will pulls up outside her house, and cuts the engine. Allie can see Cass’s bedroom light through the gap around the curtains.

“Allie,” he starts. His hands are curled around the steering wheel and he stares resolutely ahead. “I’m sorry.”

Allie doesn’t trust her voice not to waver or break, so instead hums. “It’s okay.”

He turns to her then, his hand half bridging the gap between them before he pulls it back. Instead he says, “you’re my best friend. Ever. I really don’t want to fuck that up.”

She wants to say _it wouldn’t fuck it up_ she wants to say _we would be so much better together_ she wants to say _how can you want someone so much and them not want you back_.

Instead she says, “is she pretty?”

Will jerks, his eyes flying to her face. His lips are parted in surprise. “What?”

“The girl you love. Miss Mystery,” and it is that, she thinks, what breaks her. Her eyes close and although she has made every effort to clamp her jaw shut and dig her nails into her palms, she cannot stop the breathy gulp from escaping, the tears in her eyes. Will is still looking at her and she does not want to heave a breath into ragged lungs. “Anyway, I almost got a full house in bingo.”

She flings open the truck door and picks up her purse, whilst Will looks at her with those puppy dog eyes. “Allie….”

It makes her stop, and she pauses, waiting. But he has nothing more. “It’s okay, Will. It’s fine.” She takes his hand and squeezes it briefly. “I’m just embarrassed. Nothing will change.” He nods, but looks away.

Gathering her purse, Allie clambers down from the truck. Closes the door. At her doorstep, she looks over her shoulder and waves at Will, who’s watching her go. He raises one hand in return, then turns his keys in the ignition and reverses away.

The key slides across the lock and she huffs in frustration, but the door is then pulled open from the inside anyway and Cassandra stands, half frowning, but not looking too serious.

“Hey,” she doesn’t move much as Allie steps in, so Allie has to press herself against the door frame and shuffle. She half stumbles, presses herself against the wall, then pulls her boots off and drops them where she stands.

Cassandra looks at her, eyebrows raised. “Two beers, huh?”

Allie shrugs, and tempers a flash of anger which threatens to slip out of alcohol loosened tongue. Instead she says “did you and Gordie have a good night?”

Cassandra shuts the door and slides the chain across. “It was fine. We missed you, though.”

Allie’s laugh is brittle and she is so tired. “I don’t think he did, considering he’s in love with you.” Cassandra turns her head towards her and frowns. “Gordie. He loves you.”

Cassandra bites her lip and lets the wall hold her up. “It’s not that simple.”

Allie is tired and embarrassed and sad, so she kicks her boots towards the shoe rack. “It never is.” Cass is looking at her strangely, but Allie looks steadily right back at her. “I’m going to bed. You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

Cassandra follows her up the stairs, switching lights off as she passes. “I’ll always wait up for you, Allie.” Her tone is gentle and her fingers graze Allie’s back.

Allie wants to say _do you know how claustrophobic that makes me feel._ She wants to say _please, don’t._

She doesn’t.

“ ‘night, Cass.”


	4. like the breaking of glass

There is already two Tylenol on her bedside table, and a glass of water. Allie wakes with a head that feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, and her mouth feels as though it has been filled with cat litter throughout the night and a few pieces had strayed into her throat.

She is still fully dressed, face down on her bed, cheek crushed into the pillow.

As she lifts her head she leaves a black outline of her eye make up on the pillow from where she’d cried last night. It strikes her as pathetic, and she groans faintly.

It is some negotiation to wrap the covers around herself, settle her head down and debate further sleep. Then her door creaks open, slowly, and Cassandra appears, a mug in each hand.

“Peppermint,” Cassandra offers one out, and Allie takes it gratefully. She’s glad she managed to negotiate the covers and hide the fact she is still fully dressed. “Thought maybe you could do with settling your stomach,” Cassandra raises an eyebrow over her own mug, which is chipped and proclaims in wonky, 6 year olds writing that she is the _best sista ever._

Resisting the temptation to roll her eyes (also, if the room spins she feels those Cheetos may make a surprise cameo appearance), Allie curls her hands around the mug. Cassandra’s used her favorite mug; big enough to be a bowl, painted sunflower yellow on the outside and a navy blue inner lining. Its size meant that tea was always the perfect strength, even if you accidentally left the bag in for too long.

Cassandra sits at the foot of her bed and the sisters sip their tea. It is easy, routine. Cassie even leaves the bed for a moment, retrieving a make up wipe from Allie’s bathroom wordlessly. Allie leaves it on the bed, attempting to dredge up the energy to scrub at her face.

It does take particular focus to ignore Cassandra’s smug look as Allie briefly swaps the tea for the Tylenol. Needs must.

“Good party?”

Allie hums, head falling against the headboard. “Yeah, actually.”

“You’re in a few of Becca’s pictures,” Allie wonders whether Cassandra is feigning the nonchalance in her tone. “It looked like fun.”

Allie reaches for her phone and unlocks it, opening Instagram. Becca was infamous for her photography skills; always managing to make people look ethereal. She often posted the best selection on her Instagram. Allie quickly scrolls to the latest upload, and the 6 pictures in the most recent post.

Allie is captured in the third frame, mouth open in laughter. Will has his hand on her lower back and he is beaming at her, whilst Allie’s hand is raised in apparent celebration. At the other side of the table, and faintly out of focus, are Helena and Luke. It is probably the camera and the lens used, and she wouldn’t admit it aloud, but her and Will look damn good.

She hesitates for a moment, then copies the picture and adds it to her own feed, along with the selfie she took of them both. There is a hesitation, but then she entitles them ‘best friend ever’ and tags Will before posting.

“Turns out I’m really good at beer pong,” Allie grins around the lump in her throat.

“You and Will look really cute,” Cass prods her calf with her foot, her tone light and teasing.

It would be incredibly easy to tell her. It would be right to tell her. Cassandra would know what to say, what to do. But it feels so intrinsically wrapped up in Allie’s own identity that it makes her stop. Cassandra knows how she feels about Will (although Allie has never set it out loud, never actually confirmed it to anyone) and Allie does not think she can cope with her sympathy.

So Allie hums and sips her tea, and finds herself empathizing with Gordie. Judging by her reaction the evening before, apparently Cassie has known about his feelings, and Allie suspects she has for some time.

Her head hurts, and she can’t tell whether it is from crying or alcohol. Perhaps both.

“Thank you for the tea,” Allie raises the mug towards Cassandra, who gets the hint and clambers off the bed.

“I’ll leave you to it. You probably want to remove your make up, though. You look a mess. Let me know if you want to do something when you’re feeling less fragile.”

Allie frowns at her, as Cass smiles brightly and shuts the door with more force than strictly necessary.

To be fair, when she opens up the front camera and is faced with a slightly up the nostril view of her own face, she doesn’t look the freshest. There are black mascara and eyeliner smudges all down her face, and even towards her hairline. The makeup wipe turns black and beige as she scrubs at her skin.

Before sinking under the covers again, Allie swipes through Becca’s pictures once more. The sixth and final frame is a picture of Harry Bingham. He is staring straight down the lens, his face blank. The camera is focused upon the sharp features of his face; his jawline, cheekbones. The background is a myriad of people, but the only thing in focus is Harry’s face.

Allie swipes off the picture, suppressing a small shiver. She thinks she prefers it when he’s smirking, or grinning, or anything other than that blankness and empty space.

*

After a nap, a shower, and three glasses of water, Allie emerges from her room feeling slightly refreshed.

Her parents are sitting in the living room, reading books and holding hands. Cassandra clatters down the stairs as soon as she hears movement, watches Allie inhaling two bowls of cereal back to back. Cass teases and Allie rolls her eyes, then they all play a mammoth game of Scrabble before Allie’s mom makes spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.

It isn’t quite enough to stop Allie from compulsively checking her phone. Whenever she does, there are no new messages.

Finally she can’t bear the suspense.

**Sorry Will**

**I was rly drunk, and it was inappropriate**

**Don’t worry**

**It’s okay**

**Friends?**

**Always**

It is not enough.

It has to be.

*

As Allie was swiftly finding out, socializing really put you in the same orbit as other people. Twice as many students made eye contact and acknowledged her presence in the halls, Helena even grinned across the corridor.

“Nice beer pong, Allie,” her tone was approving as she snapped her locker door closed. “We could do with you more often.”

Will doesn’t meet up with the group before school, nor at lunch. Allie tells herself that it’s normal, fine. Types a text saying she misses him five times before deleting it, annoyed at her impatience.

Helena attends the play rehearsals that evening. Cassie is rehearsing the opening scene, with limited cast members on stage. Every now and then Grizz appears from the wings, holding some indecipherable object and questioning Helena. Initially Cassandra pauses with her lines at every interruption, consulting with Grizz about each prop, trying to explain her own vision.

She stops when Harry rolls his eyes and complains, “glad to see you retaining control over every element of this goddamn play, Pressman. Keep this up and we’ll be here all night.”

Allie sits for 32 minutes without interruption or acknowledgement, so in the end she pulls out her Math homework. It’s not her strongest subject, and she’s chewing on a pen in deliberation when a voice next to her says “the answer’s 7.”

It takes her a few more seconds before she finally reaches the same conclusion. She prints the letter 7 neatly at the end of her working. Beside her, Harry gusts a breath out.

“Still playing hard to get, I see. Nice.”

Allie frowns at the page. She was not aware she was available to be got. Nor was she aware that Harry was in the market to be getting anyone. Perhaps him and Kelly were on another of their ever-increasing breaks.

“Tell me, Mini Pressman. What purpose exactly does an assistant stage manager serve?”

Cheeks burning pink, Allie shuts her exercise book and shoves it into her bag. Harry sits back in his chair, his grin a little smug.

“You’re more fun than Pressman Senior,” he decides. “She’d never get drunk on my beer, throw a ball at my face and steal my Cheetos without even saying thank you.”

“Oh, I’m honored to be your favorite,” Allie pushes as much venom as she can into her tone as she stands up.

“Woah, Pressman. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I never said anything about favorites.”

Pain shoots up her hip as she catches it on the chair in front, but she thinks she manages to walk away without limping.

“Oh, hey Allie,” Grizz looks up from where he’s hunched over some drawings scrawled on paper. His hair is pulled off his face in a top knot and not for the first time Allie thinks of all the mutterings around school, about how attractive he looked during football practice. There is no denying he is good looking, his hair unusually long, his lips always ready to twist into a rueful smile. There is also an underlying gentleness, a steady calm.

If he wanted any straight girl in the entire school, he could probably get them. But as far as Allie is aware, Grizz has never dated.

“Mind if I sit?” Allie gestures the box next to where Grizz is perched. Grizz shrugs affably, so Allie sits and resumes her homework. It’s easy, companionable. The cast moves past them, a couple throwing looks at the pair. Grizz asks for Allie’s opinions on a few ideas for sets and props.

At the end of rehearsals Allie follows Cassandra home. Cassandra says “I think it went okay today,” and Allie nods, because she should.

*

The rest of the week’s rehearsals go the same way. Allie lies backstage completing homework, or reading a book. Grizz isn’t there every night, and on those days, she feels lonely and empty.

On Friday she sits in the auditorium, scrolling through her phone. She has attended every single rehearsal and Cassandra or Helena have yet to defer to her once. It is mildly interesting when they change the scenes, but watching sub-standard performers attempting a scene for the tenth time soon loses its charm.

“What the fuck are you doing here every day, Pressman?” If it were not for his words, his tone could almost be gentle. Harry’s hands are in his jean pockets and he is the very picture of ease, leaning against the last seat in the row, gaze trained levelly at her.

Allie looks away from him, to the stage, where Cassandra is having a minor disagreement with Lexie. Cass had ranted about her last night, her eyes sparking and hands moving fast. Apparently Lexie had many ideas which contradicted with Cassandra’s.

Harry shifts, looks thoughtful. Attempts a different tact. “I’m having another party tonight. We’re thinking of playing fugitive.” Allie has heard of fugitive – everyone has. Car chases and on foot chases and it sounds ridiculous, but she has always wanted to play. Never thought she’d be invited by the game’s creator.

Will has been avoiding her all week. When they do speak he can’t look her in the eye. She keeps making awkward little half jokes and references only he would get, but all it does it pull out a twisted smile. Cassandra is involved in the play; she dissects each rehearsal to their parents who nod along and offer costume suggestions.

Allie looks back at the stage. Cass hasn’t acknowledged her in over an hour.

“Okay,” the word tastes a little sour as she says it, but she cannot take it back now. Harry’s lips quirk slightly in victory, and then he heads back to the stage where he belongs.

*

When Harry said tonight, Allie didn’t realise it meant immediately after rehearsals. There is an edge to crowd which has gathered in the parking lot, several more cars present than people at rehearsals. Cassie baulks as she leaves the exit, one hand shifting her bag strap further up her shoulder, a warrior preparing her battle armour.

“Pressman!” Harry is leaning against the side of his car and it’s February, so Allie has to squint through the dark to see him. He’s lit from above by a security light, his features thrown into shadow. “You ready?”

Cassandra cuts him a look. “I’m not coming, Harry,” her voice is loud and clear, and Harry pushes off his car and comes closer. “I don’t get involved in your stupid games.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Harry stops and he is closer to Allie than to Cassandra. Cassandra turns, her lips parted in surprise as she appraises the situation.

“Allie?” her voice sounds small, fragile. Betrayed.

Allie avoids her sister’s eyes and strengthens her resolve. She is aware of the victorious, gloating look Harry is throwing Cassandra, the scowl she returns. The fact that Allie is insignificant in this exchange; it is not about her, as a person, it is just about who can influence her the most. It is just another power struggle between Cassandra and Harry, an escalation of their debate team verbal spars, their constant battle to outdo each other.

It is also the first time in 2 hours that Cassandra has acknowledged her existence.

“You can partner with me,” Harry offers, tone casual. Allie wonders whether it is supposed to make the offer of playing more appealing. Is slightly concerned that it works.

“I’ll see you later, Cassie.”

“No – Allie – don’t-” Allie has never heard words trip from Cassandra’s mouth as they do then, all in one exhale, running together. “Allie – it’s dangerous.” It is almost pleading, and Cassie steps forwards as if she can physically block her, hold Allie back and take her home.

Allie is already turning, looking over her shoulder at her sister. “Don’t wait up for me.”

The wounded look on Cassandra’s face makes Allie feel small, but she walks away anyway.

*

It has never been clear to Allie exactly how fugitive worked, but she certainly wasn’t expecting it to start with a safety briefing.

Harry is standing on a pool chair he’s dragged to the centre of his deck. All players are assembled on the lawn, paired up but jostling at each other, a hum of excitement in the air.

“The rules!” Harry’s voice carries across the crowd. Allie scans the crowd for Kelly, but can’t see her anywhere. “One: if you are driving, you have to be sober. Two: try and stay to empty places or player’s houses.” Allie wonders how the hell she is supposed to do this. Having never played before, she has no idea where everyone lives. But everyone else is nodding, so she does too.

“Three: obey all traffic laws in front of anyone who looks like they care.” Here Luke nudges Clark and the group around them all laugh. Allie is struck with a longing for a sense of inclusion.

Harry divides the crowd into two, cops and fugitives. “Jail is the pool. Fugitives have a three minute head start. You know how it goes,” he is so relaxed, so composed. Used to commanding the attention of a crowd. He spreads his arms theatrically, brandishing a fog horn pulled from who knows where. “Let’s fuck shit up.”

Half of the group instantly bolt as the horn sounds; Allie’s sure she sees Jason taking off down the lawn and clear vaulting the fence at the end. Allie’s slightly impressed.

Harry jumps from the chair, bounding up to her. He’s all sharp smiles and teeth, bouncing on his heels. His car keys jangle as he pulls them from his pocket.

“Jason always heads to his own house so we should try there first,” he’s all business, tactics, checking his phone once and frowning before sliding it back into his pocket. “I’ll drive,” he continues, as if it was ever up for debate.

“Sure,” Allie feels out of her depth.

“Luke and Helena have probably headed to the church,” he shakes his head in indignation. “Bitch loves a pew.”

Allie doesn’t know whether he means Helena or Luke, but then a timer goes off in his pocket and he’s yelling “time, go! Go, go!” and running around the side of his house, not even checking if Allie is following.

It is instinctive to anyway, as the cops disperse, car doors slamming and engine’s revving. Harry vaults into a shiny convertible (again, it’s impressive) but Allie has to fumble with the handle, wasting time, as Harry throws her annoyed look. “Hurry the fuck up, Pressman,” he complains, and she’s barely shut the door before he throws the car into reverse and flies out of his driveway.

It is less high speed than she anticipated, mostly involving cruising slowly down the road and squinting at houses Harry knows are owned by players of the game.

“Where’s Kelly?” she can’t resist but ask, but Harry shakes his head and doesn’t even look at her. Just keeps cruising.

They see a few figures moving in the shadows, and it sets adrenaline humming in her veins.

“Ah – there – Clark. Go, Allie!” she doesn’t need to be told twice. Allie makes a break for it at the same time as a fugitive breaks cover; Gwen runs quickly, head down and arms pumping. Allie isn’t much of a runner either, but she has a straight trajectory, a single purpose of bringing Gwen down.

That is, until she is abruptly slammed to the floor. The air leaves her lungs in one gust, and she lies very still for a moment, recalibrating.

“Fucking hell, Pressman!” if she concentrates, she can wriggle her toes. If she opens her eyes, she can see the shiny front bumper of the car she glanced off. If she looks to her right, Harry is on his knees above her, frowning, hands aloft but not touching her. “Are you okay?”

Adrenaline is still buzzing, and she rolls to the side and jumps to her feet. “Fuck yeah – fine.” The driver is out of the car and is stammering half apologies, but she dismisses them with a grin, turning back to Harry.

“Come on!” her voice is a half shout, and Harry’s eyes do not leave her face. “Which way did they go?” No one has been concentrating on the fugitives, but her lungs are alive and her feet are moving as she clambers back into the car and motions for Harry to do the same.

He does, although slower. “Pressman, you just got hit by a car.”

“And I’m _fine_.” It’s not even a lie. She can vaguely feel some bruises, but nothing more. Her limbs are all working. Didn’t even hit her head. “Let’s go! Or do you want to lose?”

He’s shaking his head, but his hand is shifting gears and he’s back to driving, eyes half on the road and eyes half on her.

Allie tackles Gwen on Gwen’s own lawn, the pair triggering the floodlight as they tussle. Allie's pretty sure she has Gwen's hand in her mouth at one point. Harry leans against his car and watches, smirking when Allie calls "a little help, Bingham?" and takes an elbow to the stomach.

"Carry on, Pressman. I'm just enjoying the show."

Eventually Gwen gives in, content to riding in the back of Harry’s car, their hair streaming as he drives. Allie holds one arm out of the car, feeling the wind on her skin, and she wants to scream, but doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thank you so much for your lovely comments and kudos and all things nice, they are extremely appreciated (:


	5. oh but she burns, like rum on the fire

*

Once the majority of the prisoners have been pushed into the pool (phones and valuables are removed beforehand with surprising forethought), Harry turns all of the outdoor heaters on and opens up the patio doors. The air outside is cool, but there are so many bodies inside that it is nice to escape the oppressive heat.

The party is much the same as the one a week earlier, but also completely different. Instead of beer pong either side of the dining room table, it’s flip cup. Will is no longer a comforting presence at her shoulder. He is there, but at the other side of the room. They catch each other’s eye as Allie walks in, trailing behind Harry. Neither of them wave.

Harry abandons her quickly, without preamble, cutting across the room, clapping backs and shaking hands. It’s too early for dancing yet; most people sitting around, drinking in small groups.

Allie finds herself at the keg in the kitchen, with an unrecognisable boy. He’s smiling at her, and she’s smiling back.

“I hear you got hit by a car,” he says, and he’s all blonde hair, blue eyes and straight, even teeth. The red solo cup he passes her is full to the brim, splashing on her wrists, and his eyes follow her tongue as she licks the droplets off.

“I’d say more of a bump.”

“Well, I was in the passenger seat and I’d definitely say it was more of a thud.” White teeth flash in a smile, and he offers his hand out to her. “I’m Evan, by the way. A friend of Clark’s. I’m just up for the weekend.”

Clark is the other side of the room, having what looks like a slightly heated discussion with Gwen.

“I’m Allie.”

“So,” his tongue rests behind his teeth for a second and he looks like he’s considering something, “who did you come here with?”

It is instinctive to say Will, but it’s a lie, so instead she says, “oh, just my friends,” vaguely.

Evan is smiling at her and she is smiling at him, and that is the moment in which she realises that he is perhaps fishing for something more. It is a realisation that she has not ever had before. It’s a heady, sparking feeling.

Then they’re interrupted by Gwen, who falls into Allie with a giggle. “Allie!” she half shouts, even though the music isn’t even that loud yet. “Kelly’s not here so we need you at flip cup.”

Allie smiles an apology to Evan, and follows Gwen to the table.

As she’s lining up, she’s not surprised to find that she’s opposite Harry. Her hip hits the table, and it jolts. Harry smirks at her.

They’re the final player for each of their respective teams, and Harry looks her dead in the eye.

“I’ve seen you in P.E, and you’re going down, Pressman.”

It jars her that he has noted her existence outside of his interactions with Cassandra. But then she glares at him and watches her team as they play.

Allie isn’t expecting to be any good, considering her track record with hand eye co-ordination and general physical exercise. But spite is a powerful motivator and she has a lot of that, so she manages not to be the worst on her team and survive the first few rounds. Harry is annoyingly good, but Allie reasons that he must get a lot of practice with the constant partying.

Harry watches her from across the table as she plays. Allie likes to think she doesn’t act up to it, but she definitely does.

At some point, blonde Evan appears at her elbow and starts egging her on.

She lands the last cup, the final one, just as Harry’s bounces on its rim and rolls off the table. Allie takes a sweeping bow as the teams applaud her.

“Maybe being hit by a car has given me special powers.” Evan laughs loudly, perhaps unnecessarily so, and Harry looks blankly at him.

*

Allie drinks a few more beers, sits with Becca and Sam until Sam points out her signs are getting sloppier. She rolls her eyes and smacks a kiss to her cousins’ cheek, who pushes her off with a grin, wiping his face.

She dances for a bit, her hair flying around her face. Even grabs Will’s hand and pulls him in, jumping wildly. At a slow song, she wraps her arms around his waist and buries her head in his chest. The way his threadbare t-shirt smells makes her heart ache.

Will pulls her from the room by her hand, into the hallway. Then drops her and rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m going now, Al. Will you be okay if I do?” she pushes a smile that is wide and perhaps slightly manic onto her face.

“Yup! Absolutely. 100 per cent absolutely fine. Sam can take me back, or.”

Will still looks sad, and it makes Allie’s head and heart hurt a bit. But he pulls her into a brief hug and then he leaves and she stays, and she feels empty and hollow, like a cheap Easter egg.

Evan is still by the keg. He smiles when he sees her approaching, chuckles when she chugs half a beer down, grimacing at the taste. He has his hand on her hair, and is telling her she’s very pretty, when Harry emerges at her shoulder.

Harry ignores Evan. “Pressman.” His voice sounds almost grave. “Come with me.”

Allie is minded to say no – there is something brewing between her and Evan, which makes her feel wanted and pretty and more. But she’s already following Harry anyway, and he’s not looking back, like he expects her to fall into line.

Technically, she has fallen into line, but she doesn’t like the expectation.

Harry takes her to another room which is off the hallway, and is accessed by him using a key.

The room is all dark oak panelling and green leather chairs. Even when Harry flips the switch, the lighting is muted. There’s a tall, dark drinking cabinet in the corner, and Harry starts pulling liquors from the shelf, passing Allie a couple of bottles. He locks the door firmly behind them as they leave, leading Allie to the kitchen.

There is precision in his movements, and focus. All the bottles have the fancy pourer toppers on, and he flicks them around, bounces a vodka bottle off his wrist.

He even retrieves ice from the fridge freezer. Every measure of alcohol is extremely generous.

Eventually, Harry hands her a drink. It includes fresh basil (plucked from a pot on the windowsill) and some sort of raspberry puree. She takes a sip, and it is like Heaven. She tells him that.

“It’s Kelly’s favourite,” he explains, and he flicks at the lid of the puree before shrugging and turning away. He’s made one for himself, but tips it into a red solo cup, to disguise it. He catches her elbow before she leaves, looks down at her. They’re extremely close, so close she can smell raspberries on his breath. “You don’t have to drink beer if you think it tastes like shit.”

No one else has noticed, and Allie doesn’t know how she feels about this.

“Everyone else does.”

Harry sighs, and he moves away, tucking liquor bottles into kitchen cupboards. “The general public are idiots, Pressman.”

She thinks perhaps she is too, for being charmed by Harry Bingham making her a drink.

She leaves the kitchen whilst his backs turned.

*

In the living room, there’s another girl in Evan’s lap, arm thrown around his neck. It irritates Allie that it sends a stab of hurt through her stomach, but it does anyway.

She gets drawn into another game of flip cup, but isn’t as good this time. She’s voted off the team early, and then she fades into the background. There’s no sign of Sam and Becca.

Instead she ends up next to the pool with a bottle of vodka and some raspberry puree, stirring the drink with her finger and trying to get it to taste vaguely like how Harry had made it. It doesn’t work, but she chugs it anyway.

Harry drops with surprising grace, crossing his legs. Light from the pool reflects onto his skin, mottling it blue.

“Stop stealing my alcohol, Pressman.” She tips her solo cup at him in response, and downs the contents.

Harry snatches the vodka off her, and drinks straight from the bottle. The party seems to be dying down, the noise less than it was when she first came outside.

“Everyone’s leaving,” he tells her, and his face is blank. Allie has the urge to ask whether he’s just referencing the party, or something wider. She wonders where his parents are.

“I can go,” she makes no move to, keeps flicking her toes in the pool. Harry passes the vodka back, and holds her cup as she pours more in. He even swills the cup when she adds the puree.

He shrugs, and looks away. He looks impassive.

“Harry, where’s Kelly?” it’s a whisper.

“I think we’ve broken up. Maybe permanently,” he squints a little, and he doesn’t even bother to try and smile. His eyes are dark, and sad.

There’s silence. Allie sips her raspberry vodka. A part of her thinks she should probably stop drinking at some point, because she currently can’t taste it.

“Where’s Will?”

It’s Allie’s turn to shrug, and she looks out across the pool. Moves her feet upwards, and flicks droplets across the surface of the pool.

Harry is still looking sad, and she wants to make him feel less alone, even if for a moment. At least, that’s why she thinks she says “I want more. He doesn’t.”

Harry’s smile is quick and bitter and fleeting. “You and me both, Pressman.”

It is not a surprise when he kisses her. The angle is all wrong for the first, noses bumping, but then he presses a hand under her chin and tilts his head – and it fits. His hand slides from her chin to the back of her head, fingertips spread across her neck, in her hair, cradling her.

They break apart and neither shift away. After a moment Allie leans into his shoulder, and he keeps his arm around her.

“We should go inside.” Her toes are cold and the night air is increasingly cold.

She sits on his kitchen counter eating Cheetos as he starts clearing red solo cups, even fetching a mop and bucket. The last few stragglers leave, shouting their thanks to Harry. He locks the patio doors and turns the heaters off, and he’s about to start filling a sink with hot water when Allie grabs a handful of his grey t-shirt and pulls him towards her roughly. He slips, skids off balance, placing a hand either side of her knees, his waist between them.

Something hot curls in her stomach as he stares at her. She kisses him roughly, hungrily, biting his lower lip and then swiping her tongue across it. At one point she’s pretty sure he moans, into her mouth, and it urges her on.

It’s sloppy and potentially undignified.

His hands are on her thighs, and then he’s pulling her forwards, off the counter, and she’s wrapping her legs around him, holding him flush to her.

She is lonely and empty and hollow, and she thinks he is too.

“You definitely can’t carry me,” she protests, as he attempts to lift her. He smirks against her lips, and then he’s got his hands in her hair and is tilting her head to bite bruises into her neck.

Allie gasps, and her hands are in his hair, tugging them into disarray.

He lifts her off the counter, and she buries her head into his neck and bites a trail down to the edge of his t-shirt.

She can feel his arms trembling with the strain of carrying her, and (due to the fact he’s extremely rich) it’s a long way from the kitchen to his room. He uses her (gently) as a battering ram, pushing his bedroom door open, and then unceremoniously dumps her onto the bed.

It is then that he pauses, as he follows her, and his knees bracket her hips. He’s frowning.

“Are you sure, Pressman?”

And she’s saying _yesyesyes_ and reaching for his t-shirt, pulling him down to kiss her – because she does not need to think right now, she just needs to feel.

It is more awkward than she has been led to believe (although the extent or her knowledge was films, TV shows and books), with his arms getting tangled in his t-shirt as she pulls it off him, and him accidentally pulling her hair whilst removing her sweatshirt. He tries the clasp of her bra once, and she is suddenly shy, but the knowledge seems to escape him and he gives up.

He kisses the grazes on her elbows, muttering “I though you said you didn’t get hurt,” and his lips swallow any retort she has.

He’s shucking his jeans, and pulling hers down. She lifts her hips to help him, kicking them off. He is not smiling.

Then they’re both in their underwear, and his hands are ghosting over her hips, down her sides, between her legs. He looks for a second as though he’s deciding, but she’s tugging at the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down.

Her main thought is _holy shit is that what a penis looks like_ and she tries not to stare too much, but he’s preoccupied by reaching to his bedside drawer, rolling on a condom, and then her legs are either side of him, and he’s looking down at her, searching her face and her eyes.

He must find what he’s looking for, because his hands are either side of her head and he’s pushing into her – slowly, bending his head to kiss her jawline.

Allie gasps because – ow, fuck, it hurt – and he’s smiling into her hair, taking it as pleasure. He moves slowly, at first, but then she becomes either numb or accustomed and digs her heels into his thighs.

It’s sloppy, and the skin on his back is slightly slick with sweat when she runs her nails down it. She doesn’t want to just lie there but everything she’s ever read has not prepared her for this – for the intimacy, for the weight of his body, or his slightly breathy moans.

It’s okay, she thinks, maybe enjoyable, if she didn’t focus too much. He’s pressing a kiss to her lips, and then his tongue is swiping across them, leaving them wet. She thinks it’s pretty hot, starts to unclench her muscles, when he gasps and moans and his hip stutter once, twice.

His arms suddenly shake and he’s smiling faintly, his eyes closed, his fists curled in the sheets. Then he’s rolling off her – out of her – and she tries not to protest at the sudden lack of contact.

“Is that it?” she can’t help but wonder out loud, but he’s walking across the room, disposing of the condom and fishing a clean pair of boxers out of his drawers. Allie sits up and retrieves her underwear, pulling them back up her legs.

Allie doesn’t know if he doesn’t hear her, or chooses to ignore her.

He switches the light off, and settles under the covers.

“I’m not a cuddler,” he says into the dark room.

“Sure you’re not.”

She wakes in the night, several times, sleep disturbed as she sobers up, but also because she’s in an unfamiliar place. The mattress is too soft; she feels slightly claustrophobic as she sinks into it. Twice she wakes up with Harry at her back, curled around her, chasing her around the bed.

When she wakes up at 5am, her back prickling with heat from where he’s pressed, she pushes the covers back and swings her legs out.

In the gloom Harry’s eyes crack open and consider her lazily.

“I don’t think we should tell anyone about this,” she says, and the words feel thick in her mouth but she knows it’s right. It would crush Cassandra, and that’s who she’s loyal to.

Harry is still watching her.

“It would prejudice your chances of getting back together with Kelly,” she tries, and he makes a noise, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. He rolls away as she pulls on her jeans.

Her shoes are outside next to the pool, and are damp from the morning dew. It’s still dark outside, but the lights are all on downstairs. The floor is sticky with spilled drinks and remnants from the party are strewn everywhere. The bucket and mop are on the floor in the kitchen. Her footsteps echo as she walks through, and she is struck by how small the house makes her feel.

Allie steals the remainder of the packet of Cheetos from the counter, and sits on the doorstep as she waits for her Uber to arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!
> 
> this is my first attempt at a The Society fic. titles from lyrics by the wonderful Hozier, and none of the characters are (obviously) mine. please excuse any british-isms which escaped under the cut. if you're looking for an extremely angsty slow burn fic, you're in the right place (:


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